And we are full of stories to be told
by obedientlittlevictor
Summary: Cross my heart and hope to die. I'll see you with your laughter lines. When it's time for Paige to leave, they make a promise.


**December 2015**

"I'm in love with you," he blurts out as she drags her last suitcase to the taxi parked in front of Graceland. She snorts gracelessly and he has the reserve to avert his eyes briefly. It doesn't last long because he wants to take in everything that is Paige Arkin in their last moments together. He doesn't have any semblance of shame about that.

"Wow, I can't imagine a scenario where that line could be delivered with worse timing," she tells him with laughter in her voice, only slightly joking, but a memory tickles the back of her mind. She meets his eyes and years worth of memories flash through.

"One of us could've been dying. That might have been worse," Mike deadpans. He's nearly certain that she doesn't remember those agonizing moments when she was bleeding out on the floor of the shitty drug house. He's rewarded for his attempt at humor with a slight twitch of her lips that could almost be interpreted as a smile.

Paige instinctively rolls her left shoulder, freshly healed and completed physical therapy from the bullets that tore through her shoulder and chest, barely missing her heart. The doctor said if it had been even a millimeter to the right, she would be dead. Instead, she got a few new scars and an official notice of reassignment.

She is off to head a team in the DEA's Domestic Field Office in Washington, D.C. A prestigious honor, she's well aware, especially for someone her age and experience level. It turns out all her undercover work proved her to be more than capable as an agent and a leader. She hasn't decided if she agrees, but she wasn't given a choice.

It's the type of irony that is only funny after a bottle of vodka alone on a hotel bathroom floor: she's climbing the federal agent ladder the way Mike wants to, except she doesn't have a say in it.

Mike hands the taxi driver a $20 bill and tells him to wait just a bit longer, as if Paige has all the time in the world instead of a plane to catch. The driver just shrugs and gets back into the car.

"It's not too late to say no," Mike asserts and stuffs his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting. The rest of the house had said their goodbyes, kisses and tears exchanged, but Mike lingered. Everyone knew what was coming, so they passed along congratulations and wishes of luck and headed back inside.

"We both know it is," Paige murmurs with a shake of her head, a sad smile forced onto her face. "What else do I have, Mike?"

It sounds cruel, but it's true; they both know that too. His confession of love is not enough to keep her here, not when it would cost her the job that she worked so hard to keep. She wishes she could look past every terrible thing that has happened between them, involving them, but right now, all she can see when she looks at him are her glaring failures as an agent and as a friend.

She wishes she could comfort him with, "It's not you, it's me," and it would even be true, but she knows she needs to figure out her own feelings before dragging Mike down.

"Can you make me a promise, Paige?" It's a simple enough request, he thinks.

"Anything, Mike," she says and she means it.

"If it ever happens that we could give this an honest go– no roommate bullshit, no house rules, no work, just us– will you?"

"Yes. Cross my heart and hope to die," Paige doesn't hesitate. She wants him, has wanted him since the first time she laid eyes on him in that sleazy Korean karaoke bar, but that wanting has transformed into something she can't quite name.

"I'm sorry it worked out like this," she offers. An apology doesn't mean shit, but it's the best she can give him right now.

Mike nods and closes the door to the taxi after she gets in. She rolls down the window and he leans down. Paige wastes no time in grabbing his neck and pressing her lips to hers. The kiss ends too soon and he blinks away tears before fully opening his eyes.

"I love you too, Mike," she whispers against his lips. He chuckles and thinks to himself, _This is the worst way to deliver the line_ , just as she's driving away.

* * *

 **June 2019**

"Special Agent Arkin–" DEA Agent Rosa Mendez starts with her hand extended.

"Paige. Paige works just fine, kid," she corrects the green DEA agent and shakes her hand. She's never flaunted her title; it would be Special Agent in Charge Arkin anyway.

"Yes, ma'am, Rosa Mendez."

"Good to meet you, Mendez. Thanks for the ride from the airport." She makes a point in thanking the lower level agents for the menial tasks they are forced to do, like playing chauffeur to superiors. She remembers those days well.

"You're welcome, ma'am," Mendez replies, her back military straight and her eyes only slightly nervous. "The car is right out front."

As they walk together, Mendez takes a moment to observe, just like her training taught her to do. Paige blends into the California scene perfectly, loose blonde waves held back by gold sunglasses, a flowing dress and wedges making up her outfit. She doesn't look like a federal agent, but then again, that's the point.

"So, tell me about the house," Paige requests, as if she doesn't know exactly what Graceland is all about. Mendez gives a good description, telling the various agencies involved and their tasks.

"There are six of you there, correct?" She knows the answer to this question too, but she also knows how to ask leading questions to get information.

"Yes, ma'am. Three FBI– Mike, Nico, and Lydia–, two DEA– myself and Andy–, and one ICE– Gabriel. Mike has been there the longest, so naturally he's in charge of everyone. He does a really good job, in my opinion," Mendez looks over to see if she has said too much, but Paige just nods.

"Mike is undercover tonight with some weapons smugglers. Their choice of venue is a bar on Central. Plenty of girls looking to get into the VIP section, and more than enough alcohol and drugs to have their version of fun after."

"His cover is a seller?"

"Yeah, he's trying to work up their trust to make him their main supplier of automatic rifles and armor-piercing rounds. I'm sorry, but we'll have to go there right away. I told him I would spot him in case anything goes wrong," Mendez explains and makes a gesture to explain her own dress. "What you're wearing is great."

"Well, good, because I didn't realize we were getting straight to business," Paige laughs. "I wasn't told much besides who to meet at the airport. The rest of my stuff is being shipped here and I'll be based out of the LA field office for the foreseeable future."

Mendez gives an understanding glance and pulls the car into a parking spot in the bar. They both adjust their hair in the reflection of the car and walk to the front door. No line, but it's still early in the night.

"You'll like Mike," Mendez mentions mindlessly as they make their way to the bar to get drinks. Paige smirks to herself, but doesn't say anything.

It's as if the rest of the world falls away when Mike's piercingly blue eyes meet hers. He swallows thickly and cocks his head. The smile he lets out isn't one of his cover smiles, and she sways her hips as she walks over to the VIP section he's in, leaving Mendez at the bar with her mouth agape at Paige's natural audacity.

"How about we let this pretty lady join us?" Mike announces as he lets her through the ropes and onto his lap. The smugglers make no protest, too drunk and stoned to mind the addition.

"You gonna be in the area for awhile?" Mike asks and slides his arm around her waist tighter.

The game they're playing might be undercover, but their conversation is shooting straight. She giggles, "I'm in it for the long haul."

"So what are you looking for tonight, baby?" Mike croons exaggeratedly and Paige flutters her eyelashes as if completely enthralled. She is, though, has been for a long time.

"I'm looking to give this an honest go," she reassures and his eyes tell her that he knows exactly what she means.

* * *

 **Title is Laughter Lines by Bastille.**


End file.
